‘Yeah, and I got nowhere. Every time I ring that place, I get tight-lipped politeness and no help whatsoever. No one wants to talk about Martha Wyers.’

‘We need to get down there.’ Simon drained the dregs of his pint. ‘We’re the police—they have to talk to us. They don’t know we’re unofficially suspended.’

‘I rang Jan Garner in the cab on the way here,’ said Charlie. ‘Asked her if she had records of how all these people paid for their pictures. She didn’t, not that far back, and she couldn’t remember. All that’s on the sales sheet for each painting is a tick, to indicate the buyer’s paid. She says at least one paid in cash—she remembered that because it was so unusual.’

‘If the addresses don’t exist, maybe the people don’t either,’ said Simon.

‘One thing Jan did remember: most of them she didn’t meet in person. She said only three of the pictures sold at the private view.’

‘Cecily Wyers, Kerry Gatti and Saul Hansard?’

‘She couldn’t say for sure, but she said it was possible. Most of the others rang up later. Payment and merchandise were exchanged by post and courier.’

Simon frowned. ‘Is that usual?’

‘Jan says not. She took it as a mark of how far word had spread about Aidan’s work—that people were buying it without having seen it. Two of the nine, Elstow and Winduss, said they wanted first refusal on any paintings Seed did in the future—Jan made a note of it on the file.’

‘Bit gullible, isn’t she? All these buyers she’s never laid eyes on . . .’

‘She was making money, selling pictures—she’s hardly going to question that, is she?’ said Charlie. ‘The most successful exhibition she’s ever had.’

‘Villiers.’ Simon stood up, picked up his book. ‘That’s my next port of call. Coming?’

‘Shouldn’t we take this to Milward first?’ Charlie asked.

‘You can if you want,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll bow out. If I see her again, I’ll end up decking her.’

Charlie couldn’t imagine Milward would be interested in a catalogue from a years-old art exhibition. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll head back home. One of us needs to talk to Kerry Gatti and it looks like that one’s going to have to be me.’ She sighed. ‘My lucky day. Yet another one.’

23 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

23

Wednesday 5 March 2008

I jolt awake to the sound of a loud voice, a man’s, talking about traffic. The radio. I’m in a car I don’t recognise, with grey leather seats and a small tree hanging down from the rear-view mirror, like in a cab. Slowly, my brain puts the pieces together: this is the taxi Mary ordered to take me to the station.